UNIY€RSiTY  Of  CALlfORNIA 
LIBRARY 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES 


FRANK   DEMPSTER  SHERMAN 


-  i44  virginibus  puerisque  canto" 

— HORACE. 

11  Made  for  madrigals  and  catches" 

— DOBSON. 


NEW  YORK 

WHITE,   STOKES,   &  ALLEN 

MDCCCLXXXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1887, 
BY  FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 


TO   MY   FATHER. 

Madrigals  and  catches  caught 
In  the  cage  of  Happy-thought 
Are  these  amatory  rhymes  ; 
Reveries  of  olden  times 
When  my  heart  was  ever  bent 
After  some  new  sentiment, 
Veering  like  a  ship  at  sea 
With  the  tides  of  melody, 
Trembling  like  the  stars  above 
With  each  last-discovered  love. 

These  are  songs  for  gladsome  youth , 
Half  in  jest  and  half  in  truth  ; 
Lyrics  light  as  gales  that  toss 
Leaves  the  orchard  jloor  across, — 
Lyrics  gay  as  carols  sung 
Blossom-laden  vines  among ; — 
All  pitched  in  a  major  key — 
Catch  and  madrigal  and  glee  : 
Songs  whose  inspiration  came 
In  the  constant  leaping  flame 
Of  my  love  for  Her  whose  eyes 
Look  on  us  from  Paradise, 
And  my  love  for  you  whose  heart 
Gave  Love's  mariner  the  chart 
That  he  might  find  only  joy — 
Only  joy  for  me,  your  boy. 


395738 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


CONTENTS. 

DEDICATION.  PAGE 

Fancy I 

Morning  Mist 3 

Dawn  and  Dusk 4 

Summer 6 

Indian  Summer 8 

The  Ice-Prisoner 9 

February n 

The  March  Wind 12 

An  April  Carol 14 

Idyllic 16 

A  Glow-Worm 17 

In  an  Old  Garden 19 

With  a  Rose 21 

To  a  Daisy 22 

On  Some  Buttercups .     .  23 

To  a  Dandelion 24 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Apple  Blossoms 26 

A  Rose  Lyric 27 

"  Pansies  for  Thoughts  " 29 

Nobility 30 

A  Bunch  of  Quatrains 31 

A  Quatrain. 
A  Red  Rose. 
April. 

Bacchus 32 

A  Lyric 34 

A  Catch 35 

A  Snare 37 

A  Madrigal 39 

A  Betrothal 41 

A  Persian  Dancing  Girl 42 

A  Madrigal .44 

Child  Fancies  : 

In  the  Meadow 47 

In  the  Orchard 49 

Wizard  Frost ....  50 

The  Book-Hunter 51 

At  the  Door 54 


CONTENTS.  xi 


PAGE 

A  Reminiscence    . .56 

Love's  Seasons      . 58 

An  Avowal  .    v 61 

In  Parenthesis 64 

To  My  Message 66 

A  Cigar 68 

A  Bundle  of  Letters 71 

A  Rhyme  for  Priscilla 75 

A  Persian  Nocturne 79 

Her  Guitar 81 

The  Muse 84 

For  Saynte  Valentyne,  His  Daye 87 

To  Cupid,  February  I4th 89 

Engaged 91 

A  Lyric 95 

An  Untutored  Mind 97 

The  Village  School 99 

A  Colonial  Missive 103 

Good-Night 107 

Sonnets 109 

Breezes  of  Morning in 

A  Pacific  Dawn .  112 


CONTENTS. 


A  Butterfly  in  Wall  Street 113 

The  Dancing  Gypsy 114 

Strategy       115 

Re-awakening 116 

Miss  Thomas's  "  A  New  Year's  Masque  "   117 

French  Follies 119 

Come,  Pan,  and  Pipe 121 

When  Twilight  Comes 122 

An  Old  Rondo 123 

Behind  Her  Fan 124 

Her  China  Cup 125 

To  Cupid 126 

11  Awake,  Awake  1" 127 

To  My  Love 128 

Valentine  to  an  Anonymous  Miss    .     .     .  130 

A  Coquette 132 

A  Swell 134 

Of  Rhyme 136 

To  Austin  Dobson 138 


FANCY. 

T    I  FT  the  oars  and  let  us  go 

Whither  listless  winds  may  blow,- 
Drifting  idly  with  the  tide, 
Kissing  grasses  either  side, — 
Skimming  deeps  that  lie  between 
Bending  willow-branches  green  : 
On,  and  on,  and  on  we'll  float 
With  no  pilot  for  our  boat 
Save  the  zephyr,  cool  and  bland, 
Lisping  from  the  launching-land, — 
Guided  by  no  stars  above, — 
Only  lucent  eyes  of  love. 


' ;  ;  ,  JTADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Sailing,  we  at  last  shall  reach 
Silver  sands  of  island  beach, 
Where  a  seaward-blown  perfume 
Hints  of  orchard  fruit  and  bloom. 
In  this  golden  ocean-isle 
Let  us  wander  for  a  while, 
Plucking  from  its  treasure-trees 
Apples  of  Hesperides. 


MORNING  MIST. 

A  CROSS  the  level  meadow-land 

There  hangs  a  veil  of  vapor  white, 
Like   some  forgotten  robe  of  night 
Held  in  the  morning's  rosy  hand. 

Along  the  grass  the  wind-waves  run, 

And  wake  the  witches'  weird  refrain  : 
"  Behold  the  ghost  of  last  night's  rain  ! 

And  lo,  it  melts  before  the  sun. 

Then  comes  a  rustle  in  the  wood, 
As  if  upon  the  leaves  were  cast 
A  sudden  spell, — the  ghost  has  passed 

Into  their  shadowed  solitude  ! 


DAWN   AND   DUSK. 
I. 

OLENDER  strips  of  crimson  sky 

Near  the  dim  horizon  lie, 
Shot  across  with  golden  bars 
Reaching  to  the  fading  stars  ; 
Soft  the  balmy  west  wind  blows 
Wide  the  portals  of  the  rose  ; 
Smell  of  dewy  pine  and  fir, 
Lisping  leaves  and  vines  astir  ; 
On  the  borders  of  the  dark 
Gayly  sings  the  meadow-lark, 
Bidding  all  the  birds  assemble, — 
Hark,  the  welkin  seems  to  tremble  ! 
Suddenly  the  sunny  gleams 
Break  the  poppy-fettered  dreams, — 

Dreams  of  Pan,  with  two  feet  cloven, 
Piping  to  the  nymph  and  faun, 

Who,  with  wreaths  of  ivy  woven, 
Nimbly  dance  to  greet  the  dawn. 


DAWN  AND  DUSK. 


II. 

Shifting  shadows  indistinct ; 
Leaves  and  branches,  crossed  and  linked, 
Cling  like  children,  and  embrace, 
Frightened  at  the  moon's  pale  face. 
In  the  gloomy  wood  begins 
Noise  of  insect  violins  ; 
Swarms  of  fireflies  flash  their  lamps 
In  their  atmospheric  camps, 
And  the  sad-voiced  whip-poor-will 
Echoes  back  from  hill  to  hill, 
Liquid  clear  above  the  crickets 
Chirping  in  the  thorny  thickets. 
Weary  eyelids,  eyes  that  weep, 
Wait  the  magic  touch  of  sleep  ; 

While  the  dew,  in  silence  falling, 
Fills  the  air  with  scent  of  musk, 

And  this  lonely  night-bird,  calling, 
Drops  a  note  down  through  the  dusk. 


SUMMER. 

TV  /TEADOWS  lost  in  clouds  of  mist  ; 

Grass  whose  lips  the  dew  has  kissed  ; 
Buds  whose  fragrant  breath  is  drawn 
Through  the  freshness  of  the  dawn  ; 
Vines  in  whose  slight  pulses  flows 
Life-blood  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 
Flocks  of  happy-hearted  birds 
Talking  in  melodious  words  ; 
Brooks,  unfettered  by  the  Spring, 
Through  the  pastures  murmuring, — 
Children  prattling  in  their  glee 
Chasing  to  the  mother  sea  ; 
Soft  south-breezes, — gentle  rain, — 
Rival  wooers  of  the  plain  ; 


SUMMER, 


Here  and  there  beside  the  path 
Flowers  emerging  from  their  bath  ; 
Waving  forest-floods  of  green, 
Leaves  with  blossoms  white  between . 

Ah  !  the  bud  is  open  now, 
Hints  of  fruit  hang  on  the  bough, 
And  the  velvet  rose  is  born 
At  the  coming  of  the  morn  : 
There's  a  gladness  in  the  sun 
Speaks  of  something  new  begun, — 
Of  a  work  mysterious 
Nature  has  performed  for  us. 
Hark,  the  honey-bee's  low  hum 
Tells  us  that  the  summer's  come  ! 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

A   CROSS  the  billowy  meadow  grasses 

The  Summer  passes  with  languid  tread, 
And  where  she  journeys  the  path  is  burning, 
And  leaves  are  turning  to  brown  and  red. 

She  goes  in  silence  across  the  valley 

Where  low  winds  rally  around  her  track 

And  touch  her  garment  and  murmur,  "  Maiden, 
With  roses  laden,  come  back,  come  back  !" 

She  does  not  heed  them, — she  does  not  listen  ; 

Her  soft  eyes  glisten  with  welling  tears  ; 
Her  heart  grows  heavy  for  not  replying 

To  verdure  dying, — to  prayers  she  hears. 

But  once,  in  sorrow,  she  turns  and  lingers 
To  kiss  the  fingers  fast  growing  cold, 

And  all  the  Earth  for  a  moment's  pleasure 
Yields  up  her  treasure  of  yellow  gold. 


THE  ICE-PRISONER. 

A  BOVE, — a  dome  of  gray  ;  below, — 

The  landscape  carpeted  with  snow  : 
No  bird  so  warmly  clad  or  bold 
Who  dares  to  brave  the  bitter  cold. 
I  find  within  the  silent  wood 
A  solitude  of  solitude. 
Through  leafless  trees  no  breeze  is  blown 
To  hint  that  I  am  not  alone, — 
No  echo  cracks  the  crystal  air  : 
The  world  about  me  seems  to  wear 
A  look  of  peaceful  loneliness, 
Remembering  the  soft  caress 
Of  summer  winds  that  robbed  the  flowers, 
And  music  measuring  the  hours. 


MA  DRIGA  LS  A  ND   CA  TCHES. 


Throughout  the  land  the  hush  of  death  : 
I  breathe,  and,  lo, — the  ghost  of  breath  ! 
The  crisp  snow  crunches  'neath  my  tread 
Like  fallen  twigs  and  branches  dead. 

But  hark  !     Along  the  frozen  ground 
I  catch  a  muffled  liquid  sound, — 
A  voice  that  sings  of  Paradise, 
Low  murmuring  in  walls  of  ice, — - 
A  melody  that  seems  to  run 
To  find  again  the  truant  sun. 
I  hear  the  fettered  pulses  stir 
Of  winter's  happy  prisoner 
Whose  merry  song  and  laughter  bring 
A  thought  of  the  returning  spring, — 
Of  buds  and  grass  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  April's  early  violet. 


FEBRUARY. 

T    IKE  mimic  meteors  the  snow 

In  silence  out  of  heaven  sifts, 
And  wanton  winds  that  wake  and  blow 
Pile  high  their  monumental  drifts. 

And  looking  through  the  window-panes 
I  see,  'mid  loops  and  angles  crossed, 

The  dainty  geometric  skeins 

Drawn  by  the  fingers  of  the  Frost. 

'Tis  here  at  dawn  where  comes  his  Love, 
All  eager  and  with  smile  benign, — 

A  golden  Sunbeam  from  above, — 
To  read  the  Frost's  gay  valentine. 


THE  MARCH  WIND. 

1T)LOW,  wind  of  March,  and  sing 

Your  songs  unto  the  timid  buds  and  grass  ; 
Unclasp  the  fetters  of  the  woodland  spring 
Hushed  in  its  house  of  glass. 

Blow,  wind  of  March,  and  thrill 

The  languid  pulses  of  the  barren  trees, 

Until  their  empty  hands  with  blossoms  fill 
And  tempt  the  honey-bees. 

Blow,  wind  of  March,  and  wake 
The  sleeping  violets  with  gentle  words  ; 

Spread  your  green  canopy  of  leaves  and  make 
A  shelter  for  the  birds. 


THE  MARCH  WIND. 


Blow,  sturdy  wind  of  March, 

And  burst  the  winter's  frosty  prison-bars  ; 
Blow  all  the  clouds  from  heaven's  azure  arch 

And  stud  it  with  white  stars. 

Blow,  wind  of  March,  ay,  blow, 

Until  the  orchards  heed  your  voice,  and  bloom  ; 
Then  whisper  softly  where  the  wild  flowers  grow 

About  the  winter's  tomb. 


AN   APRIL   CAROL. 

A  PRIL  ! 

Robin,  sing  to  greet  her  ; 

Down  the  meadow  dart  to  meet  her  ! 
See,  she  brings  the  leaf  and  flower, 
Fickle  sun  and  fickle  shower, 
Gives  the  day  another  hour, 

Makes  the  breezes  sweeter. 

April  ! 

Maidens,  lend  your  faces 
Dimpled  smiles  and  gentle  graces  ! 

See,  she  brings  the  blue-bells'  chimes, 
Tardy  lovers  with  their  rhymes, 
Steals  her  days  from  warmer  climes, 
Nights  from  dewy  places. 


AN  APRIL   CAROL. 


April ! 

Song,  be  blithe  and  tender  ; 

Music,  sound  with  double  splendor  ! 
See,  she  brings  the  warbling  birds, 
Troops  of  bees  and  dappled  herds, 
Teaches  love  mysterious  words, 

Bids  the  heart  surrender. 


IDYLLIC. 

r"T*O  lie  beneath  a  cloudless  sky 

On  moss  beside  a  shallow  brook 
Where  smells  of  wild-flowers  in  the  dells 

Make  me  forgetful  of  my  book, — 
To  dream  of  shepherd  with  his  crook, 

Of  sheep  on  grassy  slopes  asleep, — 
To  catch  a  visionary  look 

Of  shepherdess,  and  hear  her  step 
Fall  like  a  whisper  on  the  ground, — 

To  watch  her  sunny  smiles,  and  see 
Her  dainty  garments,  soft  and  snowy, 

Fold  gracefully  her  form  around, — 
'Tis  like  a  day  in  Sicily 

With  Daphnis  and  his  sweetheart  Chloe. 


A  GLOW-WORM. 

/"^LOSE  by  the  margin  tufts  of  grass 

Weighed  down  with  dew  and  damp, 
I  found  you  as  I  chanced  to  pass, 

Your  trimmed  and  shining  lamp 
Illumining  with  greenish  light 
The  dusty  road  in  dusky  night : 

A  velvet  ring  set  round  with  gems 

That  softly  shone  below 
The  pale  blue  chiccory's  tall  stems, 

As  if  the  path  to  show 
To  some  belated  beetle  who 
Went  stumbling  homeward  in  the  dew  : 


i8  MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 

A  phosphorescent  beacon  there, — 

A  solitary  guide 
For  insect  ships  that  sail  the  air 

On  breaths  of  fragrant  tide  ; 
Or  were  you  from  some  realm  on  high- 
A  star  dropped  from  the  summer  sky  ? 


IN  AN  OLD  GARDEN. 


fir-trees  reach  their  arms 
To  shade  this  quiet  garden  plot, 
And  here  and  there  a  fragrant  knot 
Of  roses  tempts  the  buzzing  swarms. 

Amid  a  host  of  alien  weeds 

Spring  faces  of  familiar  blooms 
Which,  Breathing  stories  in  perfumes, 

Seem  ghosts  of  some  forgotten  seeds. 

The  creeping  vine,  its  tendrils  round 
The  crooked  rows  of  untrimmed  box, 
Forsaken  now,  methinks  it  knocks 

To  gain  admittance  to  the  ground. 


MADRIGALS  AND   CATCHES. 


All,  all  is  waste  and  desolate, — 
The  blowing  firs  are  full  of  grief, 
The  blue-bird  hidden  by  a  leaf 

Sings  sorrowfully  to  his  mate. 

The  scattered  flowers  alone  are  gay  ; 
Their  fragrance  fills  the  gentle  wind, 
And  I,  grown  drowsy,  dream  and  find 

The  long  forgotten  yesterday. 


WITH  A  ROSE. 

A    TINY  fire  within  this  rose 

Lends  to  the  leaves  a  crimson  flush 
Like  that  soft  tint  which  comes  and  goes 
And  weaves  a  modest  maiden's  blush. 

So  to  my  Sweet  this  censer  bloom 
Swung  by  Love's  little  acolyte 

I  send,  that  all  its  fine  perfume 
May  float  around  her  through  the  night. 

Go,  Rose,  unto  my  heart's  desire, 

Perchance  her  love  for  you  may  frame 

A  dream  of  Cupids  in  a  choir 
All  chanting  lyrics  to  her  name. 

And  when  the  dream  shall  end  at  last, 
A  priceless  gift  shall  be  your  fee, — 

To  feel  her  kisses  falling  fast 
Upon  your  lips  for  love  of  me. 


TO  A  DAISY. 

"IT  TEE,  little  rimless  wheel  of  Fate, 

With  silver  spokes  and  hub  of  yellow, 
What  gentle  girl,  in  accents  mellow, 
Has  sought  your  aid  to  find  a  mate  ? 

Who  snapt  your  slender  spokes  apart, 

Each  one  some  dear  acquaintance  naming  ? 
And  who  was  he— the  loved  one,  claiming 

The  choicest  chamber  in  her  heart  ? 

O  tiny  hub  of  golden  hue, 

Kissed  by  her  fingers'  tender  pressing, 
Still  yet,  methinks,  she's  vainly  guessing 

If  what  you  prophesied  were  true. 

You  died  between  her  finger-tips, 
Sweet  gypsy  maid  of  wisdom  magic  ; 
Pray,  is  it  worth  a  death  so  tragic 

To  hear  the  music  of  her  lips  ? 


ON  SOME  BUTTERCUPS. 

A    LITTLE  way  below  her  chin, 

Caught  in  her  bosom's  snowy  hem, 
Some  buttercups  are  fastened  in, — 
Ah,  how  I  envy  them  ! 

They  do  not  miss  their  meadow  place, 
Nor  are  they  conscious  that  their  skies 

Are  not  the  heavens,  but  her  face, 
Her  hair,  and  mild  blue  eyes. 

There,  in  the  downy  meshes  pinned, 
Such  sweet  illusions  haunt  their  rest ; 

They  think  her  breath  the  fragrant  wind, 
And  tremble  on  her  breast ; 

As  if,  close  to  her  heart,  they  heard 

A  captive  secret  slip  its  cell, 
And  with  desire  were  sudden  stirred 

To  find  a  voice  and  tell ! 


TO  A  DANDELION. 

T    ITTLE  mimic  of  the  sun, 

Hiding  in  the  fragrant  grass, 
Have  you  any  kisses  won 

From  the  pretty  maids  who  pass  ? 
When  the  sun  slips  down  the  west 
Some  fair  girl  shall  come  in  quest 

Of  the  secret  which  you  lock 
In  your  tiny  golden  breast : 

You  shall  hear  an  airy  knock, 

And  a  question  :  What  o'clock  ? 
***** 

Ah,  you  dainty,  snowy  ghost, 

See  what  bliss  your  wisdom  brings  ! 

Tell  me,  pray,  what  angels  boast 
Such  a  zephyr  for  their  wings  ? 


TO  A   DANDELION.  25 

Just  because  the  hour  you  tell, 
She  repays  your  magic  well,— 

Wafts  you  off  to  paradise  ; 
Sounds  for  you  a  gentle  knell  ; 

Lights  your  journey  with  her  eyes  : 

Would  that  I  were  half  so  wise  ! 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

*  •"'HE  soft  wind  whispered  secrets  to  the  apple  tree, 
Caressed  her  in  his  arms   and   would  not  let 

her  go 

Until  the  rosy  blossoms  came  triumphantly 
To  tell  the  one  sweet  message  that  he  wished  to  know. 

A  timid  maiden  with  her  lover  lingered  there 

In   silence,  clasping  hands   amid   the   leaves  that 

fell, 

Till   one   bold    blossom  drifting    down    the    per- 
fumed air 

Just  touched  her  rounded  cheek,  and  bade  the  blushes 
tell. 


A  ROSE  LYRIC. 

T3  OSE  in  the  garden-close, 

Why,  when  the  light  wind  blows, 
Why  do  you  bend  your  head  ? 
Why  do  your  cheeks  grow  red  ? 
Rose,  my  sweet, — rose  at  my  feet, 
Tell  me  ! 

What  does  the  soft  gale  say 
Whispering  low  all  day, — 

Kissing  your  lips  a-bloom, 

Answering  back  perfume  ? 
Rose,  my  sweet, — rose  at  my  feet, 
Tell  me ! 


MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 


Tell  me  that  I  may  woo 
Her  as  the  wind  wooes  you  ; 
What  a/e  the  words  that  start 
Blushes  from  your  sweet  heart  ? 
Rose,  my  sweet, — rose  at  my  feet, 
Tell  me  ! 

Rose,  of  all  roses,  queen, 
Budding  at  seventeen, 

Place  the  flower  near  your  lip, 

Then  if  the  secret  slip, 
Rose,  my  Sweet,— Rose,  at  your  feet, 
Tell  me  ! 


"  PANSIES  FOR  THOUGHTS." 

T?OR  you  these  tiny  flowers  are  cut, — 

These  slender-stemmed,  rich  purple  pansies 
A  thousand  thoughts  and  tender  fancies 

Within  their  little  hearts  are  shut. 

Sweet  memories  of  happy  hours 

We  spent  together, — dear  romances, — 
Like  love  in  one  of  Cupid's  glances, 

Hide  in  the  fragrance  of  these  flowers. 


NOBILITY. 

nPHE  sturdy  wind  that  fills  the  ship's  white  sail 

And  turns  the  mighty  mill-wheel  when  it  blows, 
Once  breathed  the  love-song  of  the  nightingale, 
And  wafted  him  the  perfume  of  the  rose. 

Let  him  who  seeks  a  god-like  man  to  find 
Think  of  the  wind,  and  seek  its  counterpart : 

The  tempest's  strength,  matched  by  a  noble  mind, 
The  zephyr  by  a  pure  and  gentle  heart ! 


A   BUNCH   OF   QUATRAINS. 

A    QUATRAIN. 

T  TARK  at  the  lips  of  this  pink  whorl  of  shell 

And  you  shall  hear  the  ocean's  surge  and  roar  ; 
So  in  the  quatrain's  measure,  written  well, 
A  thousand  lines  shall  all  be  sung  in  four  ! 

A   RED    ROSE. 

Once,  long  ago,  in  some  sweet  garden's  hush, 
A  lover  gave  you,  snow-white,  to  his  love  ; 

And,  lifted  to  her  lips,  you  saw  her  blush 
And  blushed  to  match  her  damask  cheek  above. 

APRIL. 
As  any  child,  this  baby  of  the  year's 

Made  glad  with  toys,  forgets  imagined  woes  : 
Thus  comes  young  April  smiling  through  her  tears, 

Her  toys  the  flowers,  her  grief  the  vanished  snows. 


BACCHUS. 

T    ISTEN  to  the  tawny  thief, 

Hid  behind  the  waxen  leaf, 
Growling  at  his  fairy  host, 
Bidding  her  with  angry  boast 
Fill  his  cup  with  wine  distilled 
From  the  dew  the  dawn  has  spilled ; 
Stored  away  in  golden  casks 
Is  the  precious  draught  he  asks. 

Who, — who  makes  this  mimic  din 
In  this  mimic  meadow  inn, 
Sings  in  such  a  drowsy  note, 
Wears  a  golden  belted  coat ; 
Loiters  in  the  dainty  room 
Of  this  tavern  of  perfume  ; 
Dares  to  linger  at  the  cup 
Till  the  yellow  sun  is  up  ? 


BACCHUS. 


Bacchus,  'tis,  come  back  again 
To  the  busy  haunts  of  men  ; 
Garlanded  and  gayly  dressed, 
Bands  of  gold  about  his  breast  ; 
Straying  from  his  paradise, 
Having  pinions  angel-wise, — 
'Tis  the  honey-bee,  who  goes 
Reveling  within  a  rose  ! 


A   LYRIC. 

A    LYRIC  is  a  tiny  bird,— 

Gay  lover  of  the  garden  blooms, - 
Whose  little  heart  is  ever  stirred 
By  colors  and  perfumes. 

Its  flights  are  near  the  lowly  things, 
Not  to  the  eagle-epic's  skies  : 

It  is  content  to  flash  its  wings 
Beneath  my  loved  one's  eyes. 

Go  then,  my  song,  you  have  the  chart 
To  guide  you  to  a  gentle  clime, — 

Go  build  your  nest,  and  thrill  her  hear' 
With  flutterings  of  rhyme  ! 


A  CATCH. 

TF  any  grace 

To  me  belong, 

In  song, 

Know  then  your  face 
Has  been  to  me 
A  key  ; 

For  pitched  in  this 
Delicious  tone, 

I've  known 
I  could  not  miss 

What  music  slips 
Your  lips. 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


If  faults  be  found 
In  any  line 

Of  mine, 

To  mar  the  sound 
Of  notes  that  try 

To  vie 

With  yours,  my  Sweet, 
Then,  always  true, 

Do  you 

The  words  repeat, 
And  make  sublime 
My  rhyme ! 


A   SNARE. 

T    OVE  I  locked  upon  a  time 

In  the  fetters  of  my  rhyme, 
Bound  his  feet  and  fixed  his  hands 
Firm  in  fancy-forged  bands, 
Fastened  with  a  dainty  twist 
Couplet-gyves  around  his  wrist, 
Sealed  his  lips  and  left  him,  dumb, 
Prisoner  till  She  should  come. 

Then  I  said  unto  my  Heart : 

14  By  this  magic,  by  this  art 

You  shall  learn  if  She  be  kind 

To  your  constancy,  or  blind  : 

Like  the  rhyme  your  chains  are  stout : 

Captive  in  the  dungeon  Doubt, 

There  you  languish  at  the  door 

Praying  freedom  evermore. 


38  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

If  she  pity  Love's  distress, — 
If,  with  maiden  tenderness, 
She  his  bands  and  fetters  slip, 
Murmuring  with  trembling  lip 
Linked  music  of  my  song, — 
Be  of  cheer  ;  for  then,  ere  long, 
At  your  bars  her  face  you'll  see,- 
Then  the  lock  shall  feel  the  key 
Turn  its  rusty  round, — and  then, 
Love  know  liberty  again  !" 


A  MADRIGAL. 

A  LL  the  world  is  bright, 

All  my  heart  is  merry, 
Violets  and  roses  red, 

Sparkling  in  the  dew  : 
Brow — the  lily's  white  ; 

Lip — the  crimson  berry  ; 
Hark,  I  hear  a  lightsome  tread, — 
Ah,  my  love,  'tis  you  ! 

Wing  to  me,  birds,  and  sing  to  me ; 

None  so  happy  as  I  ! 
Only  the  merriest  melodies  bring  to  me 

When  my  beloved  is  by. 


MADRIGALS  AND   CATCHES. 


All  the  air  is  sweet, 

All  my  heart  is  quiet, 
Fleecy  clouds  on  breezes  warm 

Floating  far  above : 
Eye — where  soft  lights  meet  ; 

Cheek — where  roses  riot ; 

Look,  I  see  a  gracious  form,— 

Ah,  'tis  you,  my  love  ! 

Wing  to  her,  birds,  and  sing  to  her  ; 

None  so  happy  as  she  ! 
Only  the  merriest  melodies  bring  to  her,- 

Only  this  message  from  me  ! 


A   BETROTHAL. 

"  T  LOVE  you,"  he  whispered  low, 

In  joy,  for  a  moment  bold  ; 
And  suddenly,  white  as  snow, 
The  warm  little  hand  grew  cold. 

"  I  love  you,"  again  he  said, 

And  touched  the  soft  finger-tips  ; 
But  shyly  she  bent  her  head, 
To  hide  the  two  trembling  lips.  . 

"  I  love  you," — she  turned  her  face. 
His  heart  overfilled  with  fear  ; 
When  lo,  on  her  cheek  the  trace 
Of  one  tiny  passion-tear  ! 

"  I  love  you,"  he  gently  spoke, 

And  kissed  her,  sweet,  tearful-eyed  ; 
The  rose-blossom  fetters  broke  : 
"  I  love  you,  too,"  they  replied. 


A  PERSIAN  DANCING  GIRL. 

JASMINES  tangled  in  her  hair- 
Ebon  hair  that  loosely  hangs, 
Looped  with  silver  serpent  fangs, 
Swaying  in  the  scented  air. 

Silken  sandals  on  her  feet — 
Tiny  feet  that  trip  in  time 
To  the  tambourine,  and  rhyme 

With  the  tinkling  music  sweet. 

On  her  olive-tinted  breast, 

Turquoise  trinkets,  jewels,  rings — 
Lovers'  tokens— gifts  from  kings, 

Jingle  gayly,  never  rest. 

Now  she  gives  a  dizzy  twirl 
To  the  measure  of  the  dance — 
Quicker  than  a  stolen  glance, 

Glides  the  dainty,  graceful  girl. 


A   PERSIAN  DANCING  GIRL. 


Just  beyond  the  eager  throng 
Lazily  her  lover  smokes 
With  his  rivals,  telling  jokes 

Spiced  with  strains  of  Persian  song. 

Idly  waiting — well  he  knows 
How  they  hate  him,  every  one. 
In  the  garden  of  the  Sun 

He  has  picked  the  fairest  rose. 


A  MADRIGAL. 

OWEETHEART,  the  year  is  young, 

And  'neath  the  heavens  blue 
The  fresh  wild-flowers  have  hung 

Their  cups  to  catch  the  dew. 
And  love  like  a  bird  carols  one  soft  word, 

Sweetheart,  to  the  sapphire  skies  ; 
And  floating  aloft  comes  an  echo  soft 
"  Sweetheart" — your  eyes  ! 

Sweetheart,  the  year  is  sweet 
With  fragrance  of  the  rose 

That  bends  before  your  feet 
As  to  the  gale  that  blows. 


A   MADRIGAL.  45 


And  love  like  a  bird  quavers  one  low  word, 
Sweetheart,  to  the  garden  place  ; 

And  across  the  glow  comes  an  echo  low 
"  Sweetheart" — your  face  ! 

Sweetheart,  the  year  grows  old  ; 

Upon  the  meadows  brown 
And  forests,  waving  gold, 

The  stars  look,  trembling,  down. 
And  love  like  a  bird  whispers  one  pure  word, 

Sweetheart,  to  the  cooling  air  ; 
And  the  breezes  sure  waft  an  echo  pure 
"  Sweetheart" — your  hair  ! 

Sweetheart,  the  year  wanes  fast ; 

The  summer  birds  have  flown 
From  winter's  spiteful  blast 

Unto  a  sun-bound  zone. 
And  love  like  a  bird  warbles  one  clear  word, 

Sweetheart,  to  the  balmy  south  ; 
And  back  to  my  ear  comes  an  echo  clear 
"  Sweetheart" — your  mouth  ! 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


Sweetheart,  the  year  is  gone  ; — 

Lean  closer  to  my  heart  ! 
Time  only  weighs  upon 

The  loves  that  dwell  apart. 
And  love  like  a  bird  with  his  whole  soul  stirred, 

Sweetheart,  shall  carol  his  glee  ; 
And  to  you  I'll  cling  while  the  echoes  ring 
"  Sweetheart" — for  me  ! 


CHILD-FANCIES. 

IN   THE   MEADOW. 

*T*HE  meadow  is  a  battle-field 

Where  Summer's  army  comes, 
Each  soldier  with  a  clover  shield, 
The  honey-bees  with  drums. 

Boom,  rat-ta  !  they  march,  and  pass 

The  captain  tree  who  stands 

Saluting  with  a  sword  of  grass 

And  giving  them  commands. 

'Tis  only  when  the  breezes  blow 

Across  the  woody  hills, 
They  shoulder  arms,  and,  to  and  fro, 
March  in  their  full-dress  drills. 
Boom,  rat-ta  !  they  wheel  in  line 

And  wave  their  gleaming  spears  ; 
''Charge  !"  cries  the  captain,  giving  sign, 
And  every  soldier  cheers. 


48  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

But  when  the  day  is  growing  dim 

They  gather  in  their  camps 
And  sing  a  good  thanksgiving  hymn 
Around  the  fire-fly  lamps. 
Rat-tat-ta !  the  bugle-notes 

Call  "good-night"  to  the  sky  : 
I  hope  they  all  have  overcoats 
To  keep  them  warm  and  dry. 


IN  THE  ORCHARD.  49 


IN   THE   ORCHARD. 

/^~\  ROBIN  in  the  cherry  tree 

I  hear  you  carolling  your  glee : 
The  platform  where  you  lightly  tread 
Is  lighted  up  with  cherries  red, 
And  there  you  sing  among  the  boughs 
Like  Patti  at  the  opera-house. 
Who  is  the  hero  in  your  play 
To  whom  you  sing  in  such  a  way  ? 
And  why  are  you  so  gayly  dressed 
With  scarlet  ribbons  on  your  breast  ? 
And  is  your  lover  good  and  true  ? 
And  does  he  always  sing  to  you  ? 
Your  orchestra  are  winds  that  blow 
Their  blossom-notes  to  me  below  ; 
And  all  the  trembling  leaves  are  throngs 
Of  people  clapping  for  your  songs. 

I  wonder  if  you  like  it  when 

I  clap  for  you  to  sing  again. 


MADRIGALS  AND   CATCHES. 


WIZARD    FROST. 

'I  T  7ONDROUS  things  have  come  to  pass 

On  my  square  of  window-glass. 
Looking  in  it  I  have  seen 
Grass  no  longer  painted  green, — 
Trees  whose  branches  never  stir, — 
Skies  without  a  cloud  to  blur, — 
Birds  below  them  sailing  high, — 
Chuich-spires  pointing  to  the  sky,— 
And  a  funny  little  town 
Where  the  people,  up  and  down 
Streets  of  silver,  to  me  seem 
Like  the  people  in  a  dream, 
Dressed  in  finest  kinds  of  lace : 
Tis  a  picture,  on  a  space 
Scarcely  larger  than  the  hand, 
Of  a  tiny  Switzerland, 
Which  the  wizard  Frost  has  drawn 
'Twixt  the  nightfall  and  the  dawn. 
Quick  and  see  what  he  has  done 
Ere  'tis  stolen  by  the  Sun. 


THE   BOOK-HUNTER. 

A    CUP  of  coffee,  eggs,  and  rolls 

Sustain  him  on  his  morning  strolls : 
Unconscious  of  the  passers-by, 
He  trudges  on  with  downcast  eye  ; 
He  wears  a  queer  old  hat  and  coat, 
Suggestive  of  a  style  remote  ; 
His  manner  is  preoccupied, — 
A  shambling  gait,  from  side  to  side. 
For  him  the  sleek,  bright-windowed  shop 
Is  all  in  vain, — he  does  not  stop. 
His  thoughts  are  fixed  on  dusty  shelves 
Where  musty  volumes  hide  themselves, — 
Rare  prints  of  poetry  and  prose, 
And  quaintly  lettered  folios, — 
Perchance  a  parchment  manuscript, 
In  some  forgotten  corner  slipped, 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


Or  monk-illumined  missal  bound 
In  vellum  with  brass  clasps  around  ; 
These  are  the  pictured  things  that  throng 
His  mind  the  while  he  walks  along. 

A  dingy  street,  a  cellar  dim, 

With  book-lined  walls,  suffices  him. 

The  dust  is  white  upon  his  sleeves  ; 

He  turns  the  yellow,  dog-eared  leaves 

With  just  the  same  religious  look 

That  priests  give  to  the  Holy  Book. 

He  does  not  heed  the  stifling  air 

If  so  he  find  a  treasure  there. 

He  knows  rare  books,  like  precious  wines 

Are  hidden  where  the  sun  ne'er  shines  ; 

For  him  delicious  flavors  dwell 

In  books  as  in  old  Muscatel  ; 

He  finds  in  features  of  the  type 

A  clew  to  prove  the  grape  was  ripe. 


THE  BOOK-HUNTER.  53 

And  when  he  leaves  this  dismal  place, 
Behold,  a  smile  lights  up  his  face  ! 
Upon  his  cheeks  a  genial  glow, — 
Within  his  hand  Boccaccio, 
A  first  edition  worn  with  age, 
"  Firenze  "  on  the  title-page. 


AT    THE   DOOR. 

T  T  THAT  time  the  night-bird  to  the  rose 

Sings  of  his  love, 

I  seek  her  garden-plot  where  grows 
A  blossom-laden  vine  that  throws 
Its  arms  above, 

And  scales  the  weary  stretch  of  stone, 

Until  at  length 

It  clasps  her  lattice  open  thrown, 
And  sees  the  sweet  face  of  my  own 

And  finds  new  strength. 

How  often  I  have  strived  to  climb 

Love's  barrier  wall 
Upon  the  ladder  of  my  rhyme  : 
A  little  way, — yet,  time  on  time, 

I  faint  and  fall. 


AT  THE  DOOR.  55 


Methinks  if  once  I  could  but  rise 

Up  to  the  bars, 

And  gather  courage  from  those  eyes 
To  speak— so  close  unto  the  skies — 

Unto  the  stars — 

Alas,  my  fancy  goes  no  more ! 

Perhaps  'twould  be 
As  if,  with  weary  feet  and  sore, 
I  came  to  Heaven's  closed  door 

Without  a  key. 


A   REMINISCENCE. 

r  I  ^HERE  was  a  time,  fond  girl,  when  you 

Were  partial  to  caresses  ; 
Before  your  graceful  figure  grew 

Too  tall  for  ankle-dresses  ; 
When  "  Keys  and  Pillows,"  and  the  rest 

Of  sentimental  pastimes, 
Were  thought  to  be  the  very  best 

Amusement  out  of  class-times. 

You  wore  your  nut-brown  hair  in  curls 
That  reached  beyond  your  bodice, 

Quite  in  the  style  of  other  girls, — 
But  you  I  thought  a  goddess  ! 

I  wrote  you  letters,  long  and  short, 
How  many  there's  no  telling  ! 


A   REMINISCENCE. 


Imagination  was  my  forte  : — 
I  can't  say  that  of  spelling  ! 

We  shared  our  sticks  of  chewing-gum, 

Our  precious  bits  of  candy  ; 
Together  solved  the  knotty  sum,    • 

And  learned  the  ars  armandi  : 
Whene'er  you  wept,  a  woful  lump 

Stuck  in  my  throat,  delayed  there  ! 
My  sympathetic  heart  would  jump  : — 

I  wondered  how  it  stayed  there  ! 

We  meet  to-day, — we  meet,  alas  ! 

With  salutation  formal  ; 
I'm  in  the  college  senior  class, 

You  study  at  the  Normal  ; 
And  as  we  part  I  think  again, 

And  sadly  wonder  whether 
You  wish,  as  I,  we  loved  as  when 

We  sat  at  school  together  ! 


LOVE'S  SEASONS. 

WAS  spring  when  I  first  found  it  out ; 

Twas  autumn  when  I  told  it ; 
The  gloomy  winter  made  me  doubt, 
And  summer  scarce  could  hold  it : 
"  She  loves,"  the  mating  robins  sang 

In  sweet,  delicious  trebles, 
And  through  the  brooks  the  echo  rang 
In  music  o'er  the  pebbles. 

The  fresh  air,  filled  with  fragrant  scent 

Of  blossoms,  softly  hinted 
The  self-same  song  ;  where'er  I  went 

I  found  the  message  printed 
On  bud  and  leaf,  on  earth  and  sky, 

Through  sun  and  rain  it  glistened, 


LOVERS  SEASONS.  59 

And  though  I  never  reasoned  why, 
I  always  read  or  listened. 

The  summer  dawned,  and  still  the  birds 

Sang  in  their  tree-top  glory, 
And  something  seemed  to  make  their  words 

A  sequel  to  my  story  : 
"  You  love,"  they  twittered  in  the  trees  ; 

Whene'er  the  light  wind  stirred  them, — 
Distracting  words  !  — on  every  breeze 

They  fluttered,  and  I  heard  them. 

At  last  the  mellow  autumn  came, 

And  all  the  leaves  were  turning, 
The  fields  and  forests  were  aflame 

In  golden  sunlight  burning  ; 
The  parting  birds  sang  out  again 

A  sentimental  message  : 
"  Go  tell  her,"  whispered  they,  and  then 

I  thought  'twas  love's  first  presage. 


60  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

O  timid-hearted  twenty-four, 

To  faint  and  lose  your  courage, 
Or  half-reluctantly  implore 

A  pretty  girl  at  her  age  ! 
For  when  I  stammered  what  they'd  sung, 

And  all  their  secrets  told  her, 
She  said  the  birds  were  right,  and  hung 

Her  head  upon  my  shoulder. 


AN   AVOWAL. 

'T'HERE'S  a  word  in  my  heart,  dare  I  tell  it  ? 

A  dangerous,  wonderful  word  : 
It  calls,  and  I  hush  it  and  quell  it ; 

It  flutters  and  calls  like  a  bird 
Made  captive  from  out  its  dark  prison, 

And  begs  for  a  glimmer  of  light ; 
Up,  up  to  my  throat  it  is  risen, 

And  poises  for  flight. 

Her  eyes  are  like  stars  softly  shining, 

Each  one  has  a  sparkle  within  ; 
And  radiant  roses  are  twining 

In  cheeks  where  my  kisses  have  been. 
But  something  of  sadness  and  sorrow, 

A  shadowy  emblem  of  doom, 


62  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Seems  whispering,  "Wait  for  the  morrow  !" 
And  leaves  me  in  gloom. 

One  touch  of  her  exquisite  fingers, 

One  pressure  of  velvety  tips, 
In  memory's  mazes  still  lingers  ; 

One  kiss  is  still  fresh  on  my  lips. 
But  down  in  my  heart  in  a  flutter 

A  bird  dwells  to  tenderly  sing 
The  song  that  my  lips  dare  not  utter, 

The  song  of  a  ring, — 

A  ring  wrought  of  gold,  with  a  jewel 

Imbedded  within  it  that  tries 
To  flash  back  the  soft  or  the  cruel 

Light  locked  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 
Will  she  wear  it,  I  wonder,  a  token 

Of  all  that  my  heart  holds  so  fast 
That  the  fetters  remain  yet  unbroken 

And  firm  to  the  last  ? 


AN  AVOWAL.  63 


There  it  comes  !     What  a  ghost  of  a  shiver 

Just  ran  through  my  stammering  tongue ! 
And  down  in  -my  heart  there's  a  quiver 

Of  something  that  ought  to  be  sung. 
One  word — ah,  my  darling,  you  know  it ; 

The  long  captive  songster  has  flown  ! 
Love — love — is  the  burden  ;  the  poet 

Loves  you — you  alone ! 


IN    PARENTHESIS. 

T  READ  the  verses  from  my  copy, 

A  bunch  of  fancies  culled  from  Keats, 
A  rhyme  of  rose  and  drowsy  poppy, 

Of  maiden,  song,  and  other  sweets  : 
The  lines — so  patiently  I  penned  them, 

Without  one  sable  blot  or  blur — 
I  knew  had  music  to  commend  them 

And  all  their  secret  thoughts  to  her. 

She  heard  the  rhythmical  romanza, 
And  made  a  comment  there  and  here  ; 

I  read  on  to  the  final  stanza, 

Where  timid  love  had  made  me  fear. 


IN  PARENTHESIS.  65 

A  long  parenthesis  ;  the  metre 

Went  lamely  on  without  a  foot, 
Because  the  sentiment  was  sweeter 

Than  love  emboldened  me  to  put. 

Alas,  I  tried  to  fill  the  bracket ; 

The  truant  thought  refused  to  come  ! 
The  point, — to  think  the  rhyme  should  lack  it ! 

My  wakeful  conscience  struck  me  dumb. 
She  took  the  little  leaf  a  minute, — 

Ah,  what  a  happy  time  was  this  ! 
The  bracket  soon  had  something  in  it, — 

I  kissed  her  in  parenthesis. 


TO  MY  MESSAGE. 

~\  T  7"HEN  in  her  lap  you  lie, 

Little  note, 

Look  upward  to  your  sky — 
A  tender,  mild  blue  eye, 

A  round,  rose-colored  throat, 
An  exquisite  white  chin 
With  one  star-dimple  in  : 

Look  upward  from  her  lap's 

Soft  pillow,  and  perhaps 
You  may  see 

Her  think  of  me. 

And  if  by  happy  chance, 

Letter  mine, 

You  see  her  blue  eyes  glance 
Across  your  smooth  expanse, 
Or  fixed  upon  the  line 


TO  MY  MESSAGE.  67 


Which  rhymes  with  all  the  love 
Reflected  there  above, 

Grieve  not  that  you  are  dumb  ; 

But  think  that  I  shall  come 
Once  again, — 

Your  spokesman  then. 

Ah  me  !  would  I,  like  you, 

Missive  slight, 

Might  watch  those  clear  eyes  blue, 
That  throat  and  white  chin,  too, 

And  read  them  all  aright, — 
Might  feel  the  red  lips  touch 
My  own, — I'd  give — how  much  ! — 

Just  once  to  take  your  place, 

My  paradise  her  face 
And  a  part 

Of  her  dear  heart. 


A  CIGAR. 

A   LONE  I  puff  soft  wreaths  of  blue 

That  frame  a  most  delightful  view  ;- 

A  little  library  with  two 
Together  sitting  : 

A  youth  and  girl.     Upon  her  knees 

A  novel  with  a  hero  ;  he's 

A  ghostly  circumstance  to  these 

Quaint  wraps  she's  knitting. 

The  lover  holds  the  worsted,  and 
Just  touches  one  fair  pinky  hand  : 
How  well  her  bright  eyes  understand  ! 

For  soon,  unbidden, 
Two  scarlet  lips  begin  to  move 
A  conversation  in  that  groove 


A    CIGAR.  69 

Where  chosen  words  quite  clearly  prove 
The  subject  hidden. 

And  then  the  knitting's  laid  aside  ; 

The  needle's  dropped  ;  and  some  sweet  guide 

Leads  both  his  hands  to  haply  hide 

Two  others  whiter. 
I  listen,  and  a  mellow  note 
Slips  through  the  rosy,  rounded  throat  : 
I  hear  the  happy  lover  quote 

The  novel's  writer. 

The  writer, — ah,  what  kind  fates  come 

To  keep  harsh  criticism  from 

His  little  book  :  perhaps  'tis  some 
Such  situation  ; — 

A  picture  similar  to  this, 

Portraying  a  brief  spell  of  bliss. 

And  punctuated  with  a  kiss- 
Interrogation. 


70  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

I  see  the  faces  slowly  meet, 

And  shy,  uncertain  glances  greet : 

The  knitting's  fallen  to  her  feet  ; 

And  on  his  shoulder 
Her  head  in  golden  glory  lies, 
While,  fathoming  her  lovely  eyes, 
He  reads  the  tenderest  replies, — 

Love  growing  bolder. 

But,  while  I  dream  in  idleness, 
And  wonder  whether  she  will  bless 
His  hearing  with  a  whispered  "  yes,1 

With  drooping  lashes  ; 
The  picture  fades  from  sight  afar 
As  pales  at  morn  a  silver  star  ; 
I  seek  the  light  of  my  cigar, 

And  find  but  ashes. 


A  BUNDLE  OF  LETTERS. 

OTRANGE  how  much  sentiment 

Clings  like  a  fragrant  scent 
To  these  love-letters  pent 

In  their  pink  covers  : 
Day  after  day  they  came 
Feeding  love's  fickle  flame  ;— 
Now,  she  has  changed  her  name, — 
Then,  we  were  lovers. 

Loosen  the  silken  band 
Round  the  square  bundle,  and 
See  what  a  dainty  hand 

Scribbled  to  fill  it 
Full  of  facetious  chat  ; 
Fancy  how  long  she  sat 
Moulding  the  bullets  that 

Came  with  each  billet  ! 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


Ah,  I  remember  still 
Time  that  I  used  to  kill 
Waiting  the  postman's  shrill, 

Heart-stirring  whistle, 
Calling  vague  doubts  to  mind, 
Whether  or  no  I'd  find 
That  he  had  left  behind 

One  sweet  epistle. 

Seconds  become  an  age 
At  this  exciting  stage  ; 
Two  eager  eyes  the  page 

Scan  for  a  minute  ; 
Then,  with  true  lover's  art. 
Study  it  part  by  part, 
Until  they  know  by  heart 

Everything  in  it. 

What  is  it  all  about  ? 
Dashes  for  words  left  out, — 


A   BUNDLE  OF  LETTERS. 


Pronouns  beyond  a  doubt ! 

Very  devoted. 
Howells  she's  just  begun  ; 
Dobson  her  heart  has  won  ; 
Locker  and  Tennyson 

Frequently  quoted. 

Criss-cross  the  reading  goes, 
Rapturous  rhyme  and  prose, — 
Words  which  I  don't  suppose 

Look  very  large  in 
Books  on  the  "  ologies"  ; 
Then  there's  a  tiny  frieze 
Full  of  sweets  in  a  squeeze, 

Worked  on  the  margin. 

Lastly, — don't  pause  to  laugh  !— 
That  is  her  autograph 
Signing  this  truce  for  half 

Her  heart's  surrender ; 


MADKIGALS  AlvD  CATCHES. 


Post-scriptum,  one  and  two, — 
Desserts, — the  dinner's  through  !- 
Linking  the  "  I  "  and  "  You" 
In  longings  tender. 

Such  is  the  type  of  all 
Save  one,  and  let  me  call 
Brief  notice  to  this  small 

Note  neatly  written  : 
Tis  but  a  card,  you  see, 
Gently  informing  me 
That  it  can  never  be  ! — 

This  is  the  mitten  ! 


A  RHYME    FOR    PRISCILLA. 

"TAEAR  Priscilla,  quaint,  and  very 

Like  a  modern  Puritan, 
Is  a  modest,  literary, 

Merry  young  American  : 
Horace  she  has  read,  and  Bion 

Is  her  favorite  in  Greek  ; 
Shakspere  is  a  mighty  lion 

In  whose  den  she  dares  but  peek  ; 
Him  she  leaves  to  some  sage  Daniel, 

Since  of  lions  she's  afraid, — 
She  prefers  a  playful  spaniel, 

Such  as  Herrick  or  as  Praed  ; 
And  it's  not  a  bit  satiric 

To  confess  her  fancy  goes 
From  the  epic  to  a  lyric 

On  a  rose. 


76  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Wise  Priscilla,  dilettante, 

With  a  sentimental  mind, 
Doesn't  deign  to  dip  in  Dante, 

And  to  Milton  isn't  kind  ; 
L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso, 

Have  some  merits  she  will  grant, 
All  the  rest  is  only  so-so, — 

Enter  Paradise  she  can't ! 
She  might  make  a  charming  angel 

(And  she  will  if  she  is  good, 
But  it's  doubtful  if  the  change'll 

Make  the  Epic  understood) : 
Honey-Suckling,  like  a  bee  she 

Goes  and  pillages  his  sweets, 
And  it's  plain  enough  to  see  she 

Worships  Keats. 


Gay  Priscilla, — just  the  person 
For  the  Locker  whom  she  loves  ; 


A   RHYME  FOR  PRISCILLA. 


What  a  captivating  verse  on 

Her  neat-fitting  gowns  or  gloves 
He  could  write  in  catching  measure, 

Setting  all  the  heart  astir  ! 
And  to  Aldrich  what  a  pleasure 

It  would  be  to  sing  of  her, — 
He,  whose  perfect  songs  have  won  her 

Lips  to  quote  them  day  by  day. 
She  repeats  the  rhymes  of  Bunner 

In  a  fascinating  way, 
And  you'll  often  find  her  lost  in — 

She  has  reveries  at  times — 
Some  delightful  one  of  Austin 

Dobson's  rhymes. 


O  Priscilla,  sweet  Priscilla, 

Writing  of  you  makes  me  think, 

As  I  burn  my  brown  Manila 
And  immortalize  my  ink, 


78  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

How  well  satisfied  these  poets 

Ought  to  be  with  what  they  do, 
When,  especially,  they  know  it's 

Read  by  such  a  girl  as  you  : 
I  who  sing  of  you  would  marry 

Just  the  kind  of  girl  you  are, — 
One  who  doesn't  care  to  carry 

Her  poetic  taste  too  far, — 
One  whose  fancy  is  a  bright  one. 

Who  is  fond  of  poems  fine, 
And  appreciates  a  light  one 

Such  as  mine. 


A   PERSIAN   NOCTURNE. 

S~\  NIGHTINGALE  among  the  leaves 
Who  singest  to  the  blushing  rose, 
Thy  liquid,  mellow  music  cleaves 

The  garden's  fragrance  where  it  goes  ! 
Who  taught  thy  feathered  slender  throat 
This  strange,  delicious,  limpid  note, 

Which  soaring  skyward  through  the  dark 
In  swift,  melodious  pursuit, 

Tempts  all  the  trembling  stars  to  hark, 
And  all  the  rustling  leaves  be  mute  ? 

Teach  me  thy  song,  O  happy  bird, 
That,  'neath  the  window  of  my  love, 

My  lips  may  speak  some  honeyed  word 
With  wings  to  waft  it  up  above  ; 


8o  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

And  when  she  comjs  her  starry  eyes 
Shall  shame  their  rivals  in  the  skies  ;— 

Her  cheeks  shall  mock  the  rose  ; — and  thou, 
Beholding  what  thou  thinkest  thine, — 

Perched  lightly  on  the  lofty  bough, — 
Shalt  leave  thy  rose,  and  sing  to  mine  ! 


HER  GUITAR. 

"D  Y  the  fire  that  loves  to  tint  her 

Cheeks  the  color  of  a  rose, 
While  the  wanton  winds  of  winter 

Lose  the  landscape  in  the  snows, — 
While  the  air  grows  keen  and  bitter, 

And  the  clean-cut  silver  stars 
Tremble  in  the  cold  and  glitter 

Through  the  twilight's  dusky  bars,— 
In  a  cozy  room  where  lingers 

Happy  Time  on  folded  wings, 
I  am  watching  five  white  fingers 

Float  across  six  slender  strings 
Of  an  old  guitar,  held  lightly, — 

Captivated  while  she  sets, 


MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 


Here  and  there,  five  others  tightly 
On  the  frets. 


Lost  in  loving  contemplation 

Of  the  fair,  shy,  girlish  face 
Conscious  of  no  admiration, 

Posed  with  such  a  charming  grace 
O'er  this  instrument  some  Spanish 

Serenader  used  to  keep 
Hidden  till  the  Sun  would  vanish 

And  the  birds  were  fast  asleep  ; 
Who,  below  his  loved-one's  casement: 

With  the  mellow  Southern  moon 
Through  a  leafy  interlacement 

Shining  softly,  thrummed  a  tune  : 
Did  she  answer  it  I  wonder  ? 

Did  she  frame  a  sweet  reply  ? 
Did  she  grant  the  wish  made  under 

Such  a  sky  ? 


HER  GUITAR.  85 


This  I  know,  if  she  had  listened 

To  the  melody  I've  heard, 
Mute  confessions  must  have  glistened 

In  her  eyes  at  every  word  ; 
And  the  very  stars  above  her 

Must  have  whispered,  one  by  one, 
Something  sentimental  of  her 

When  the  serenade  was  done. 
For  this  music  has  but  ended, 

And  I  leave  my  dreams  to  find 
With  the  notes  are  somehow  blended 

Like  confessions  of  my  mind  ; 
And  the  gentle  girl  who  guesses 

What  these  broken  secrets  are, 
Is  the  one  whose  arm  caresses 

This  guitar. 


THE  MUSE. 

Tj^OR  months  I  had  suffered  derision,— 

A  siege  of  poetical  blues  ; 
The  fair  mythological  vision 

Familiarly  known  as  the  muse 
Had  vanished  and  left  me  deserted, 

The  frozen  rhyme-rills  wouldn't  run 
While  she,  Miss  Calliope,  flirted 

With  some  other  son. 

The  ink  which  I  penned  every  word  of 

Once  put  upon  paper, — it  froze  ; 
Presto  ! — transformation  unheard  of 

The  poetry  turned  into  prose. 
'Twas  clear  that  the  rhymes  were  not  running 

In  pairs  simultaneous  then, 


THE  MUSE. 


'Twas  clear  that  my  hand  had  lost  cunning, 
And  likewise  my  pen. 

I  conquered  some  mental  depression 

In  this  philosophical  grief  : 
The  muse  may  repent  her  transgression, 

I  reasoned, — and  turn  a  new  leaf, 
And  some  happy  day,  unexpected, 

Return  and  do  penance  a  time 
By  having  her  manners  corrected 

In  trivial  rhyme. 

Alas  for  the  "  rhyme"  with  the  4<  reason," 

Those  two  incompatible  words  ! 
I  had  as  well  dreamed  of  a  season 

Of  snow  with  its  roses  and  birds. 
Calliope,  I'd  had  enough  of, — 

Here  Shakspere's  remark  came  to  aid 
My  brain  with  a  trope  : — She's  the  stuff  of 

Which  visions  are  made. 


MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 


Then  sudden,  with  never  a  warning, 

A  voice  at  my  side  bade  me  write, 
As  if  out  of  darkness  the  morning 

Had  flooded  the  landscape  with  light ; 
The  rhymes  came  again  like  the  verdure 

Which  lifts  to  the  heavens  above, — 
Ah,  Sweetheart,  'twas  then  that  I  heard  your 

Lips  murmuring  love ! 


FOR  SAYNTE  VALENTYNE,  HIS  DAYE. 

E,  little  Rhyme,  &  greete  Her, 
Goe,  tel  Her  yft  I  thinke 
Things  infinitely  sweeter 
Yn  I  maie  putt  in  Inke  : 
Ye  Musick  of  ye  metre 

Shal  linger  on  ye  Aire 
Yfl  whiles  She  turns  ye  Leaves  &  learns 
Ye  Secrett  hidden  there. 

Flye,  little  Leafe  of  Paper, 

Flye,  merrie-hearted  Bird, 
&  lett  your  Fancie  shape  Her 

Some  dear  &  simple  Word 


88  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Soe  sweete  it  sha'n't  escape  Her, 

&  if  a  Blushe  you  see 

Steale  upp  &  chase  across  Her  face, 

Return  &  counsell  me. 

Haste,  little  God  !     I  send  Her, 

Bye  You,  y»  MS, 
Wch  hopefull  Love  has  penned  Her 

Withe  quill  in  Honie  dipt ; 
Haste  ;  bidd  Her  Heart  be  tender 

Unto  ye  lightesome  Line 
Where  I  in  maske  have  come  to  aske 

To  be  Her  Valentyne  ! 


TO  CUPID,  FEBRUARY  I4th. 
,  goe  to  Her  in  haste, 


Saye  my  Hearte  is  hopefull  ; 
Of  ye  Songes  y*  She  has  graced, 

Here  's  an  Envelope  full. 
Kiss  Her  once  —  y8  be  your  Fee  ; 

Kiss  her  twice  —  for  mine  ! 
Kiss  Her  thrice  &  three  times  three, 
Telle  Her  you  have  come  to  be 
Her  Valentyne  ! 

Cupid,  goe  in  haste  to  Her, 
Saye  my  Hearte  is  lonely  ; 

Hasten,  prettie  Messenger, 
Bring  Her  to  me  —  only 


90  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Kiss  Her  once— y8  be  your  Fee  ; 

Kiss  Her  twice — for  mine  ! 
I  shall  kiss  her  three  times  three, 
When  you  bring  Her  back  to  be 
My  Valentyne. 


ENGAGED. 

TV  TUTE  the  music  of  the  fiddle 

When  we  wandered  to  the  door  ; 
Must  have  been  about  the  middle 

Of  the  night,  or  may  be  more. 
Every  poising  of  her  face  let 

Loose  the  rhapsodies  of  love  ; 
Every  movement  of  her  bracelet, 

Or  her  glove. 

After  each  adieu  was  bidden, 
Leisurely  we  took  our  leave  ; 

One  white  hand  was  half-way  hidden 
In  a  corner  of  my  sleeve. 

Foolishly  my  fancy  lingers  ! 
Still,  what  can  a  captive  do  ? 


ga  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Just  the  pressure  of  her  fingers 
Thrilled  me  through. 

Spoke  we  of  the  pleasant  dances, 

Costumes,  supper,  and  the  wine  ; 
Gossiped  of  the  stolen  glances  ; 

Guessed  engagements,— mentioned  mine. 
Some  old  sorrow  to  her  eye  lent 

Tears  that  trickled  while  we  talked, 
And  I  found  her  growing  silent 

As  we  walked. 

My  engagement  ?     Queer,  why  stupid 

People  peddle  little  lies  ! 
Here,  beside  us,  cunning  Cupid 

Shot  his  arrows  from  her  eyes  ; 
In  my  heart  a  twinge  and  flutter 

Followed  fast  each  dart  he  dealt, 
And  my  tongue  tried  hard  to  utter 

What  I  felt. 


ENGA  GED.  93 


Standing  near  the  polished  newel, 

With  the  gas  turned  very  low, 
Conscience  seemed  to  whisper,  "Cruel, 

Tell  the  truth  before  you  go." 
So  my  courage,  getting  firmer, 

Set  her  doublings  all  aright ; 
Tiny  hands  came  with  the  murmur, 

"  Now,  good-night  !" 

Twas  the  same  delicious  lisp  heard 

At  the  dance — a  merry  strain  ! 
True  the  voice  now  softly  whispered, — 

True  she  let  her  hands  remain 
In  my  own,  as  if  in  token 

Of  some  wish  in  sweet  eclipse, 
Cherished  lovingly,  unspoken 

By  her  lips. 

Long-lashed  eyelids  gently  drooping, 
Face  suffused  with  scarlet  flush, 


94  MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES. 

Told  the  secret,  as  I,  stooping, 
Kissed  the  rose-leaf  of  her  blush  : 

Like  some  happy,  sunny  island 
In  a  sea  of  joy  was  I  ; 

Quick  she  turned  her  face  to  smile,  and 
Said  "  Good-by  !" 

When  we  met  the  morning  after, 

Blithe  as  any  bird  was  she  ; 
Music  mingled  with  her  laughter, 

Every  word  was  love  to  me. 
So  the  genial  Mrs.  Grundy, 

Seeing  how  our  hearts  are  caged, 
Tells  the  truth  at  church  next  Sunday 

"  They're  engaged  !" 


A  LYRIC. 

T    ADY,  at  your  lattice  I 

Launch  this  lyric  to  the  sky- 
On  the  fragrant  tides  of  musk 
Dewy  blooms  exhale  at  dusk  ; 
Love  its  pilot, — only  Love 
Left  to  haven  it  above, — 
Left  to  guide  it  through  the  bars 
Of  the  twilight  to  the  stars  ; 
And  these  sentinels  who  keep 
Careful  vigils  o'er  your  sleep 
Shall  to  your  soft  slumber  bring 
This  love  lyric  which  I  sing  ; 


96  MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 

Thus  throughout  the  summer  night 
Melody  shall  make  delight 
Mingle  with  your  dreams  and  be 
Love's  petitioners  for  me, 
Till  the  East  shall  hint  of  day, 
And  the  stars  shall  sail  away 
Making  music-billows  break 
On  your  lids  and  whisper  :  Wake  !— 
Till  I  see  your  curtain  drawn 
And  your  rosy  face — the  Dawn  ! 


AN  UNTUTORED  MIND. 

T  T  THEN  I  was  but  a  lad  of  eight, 

And  Dorothy  was  turning  seven, 
My  life  seemed  spent  close  by  the  gate 

Of  what  I  had  imagined  Heaven  ; 
So  sweet  was  Dorothy,  and  mild, 

To  every  fault  of  mine  so  tender, 
I  grew  to  love  her  as  a  child 

Accustomed  always  to  befriend  her. 

Through  school  hours  I  observed  her  dress,- 

Plain  calico  to  me  was  satin  ; 
The  habit  often  cost  recess 

And  many  weary  lines  of  Latin. 


98  MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 

She  very  seldom  turned  her  face, 
Replete  with  roses,  fair  and  ruddy  ; 

She  seemed  to  think  the  school  a  place 
For  strict  deportment  and  for  study. 

In  all  the  classes  she  was  first  ; 

She  graduated, — went  to  college, — 
Returned  most  wonderfully  versed 

In  every  branch  and  twig  of  knowledge. 
Alas  !  I  wear  no  savant's  cap  ; 

My  brain  is  not  a  book-condenser  ! 
No  doubt  she'll  marry  that  young  chap 

I  hear  her  call  "  Dear  Herbert  Spencer  /" 


THE   VILLAGE   SCHOOL. 

*TILL  on  the  corner  stands  the  school 

Where  my  first  steps  were  taken, 
The  butt  of  public  ridicule, 

Deserted  and  forsaken  ; 
The  belfry  no  more  boasts  the  bell 

Whose  tumult  used  to  measure 
My  boyhood's  hours  and  ring  the  knell 

To  every  prank  and  pleasure. 

The  town  has  shifted  foot  by  foot 

As  tempora  mutantur, 
And  wisdom's  wine  to-day  is  put 

Into  a  new  decanter 
Whose  bright  exterior  seems  to  hold 

A  vital  essence  cheery, 
Yet  just  this  morning  I  was  told 

'Twas  dull  within  and  dreary. 


MA DRIGA LS  AND   CA  TCHES. 


The  boy  is  father  of  the  man  : 

He  lives  and  thinks  as  I  did 
When,  in  short  trousers,  I  began 

To  have  my  joys  divided. 
He  took  me  back  to  this  old  place 

So  with  my  youth  connected, 
And  looking  in  the  youngster's  face 

This  picture  was  reflected. 

Out  from  the  pages  of  my  book, 

Too  pictureless  for  study, 
I  sometimes  used  to  steal  a  look 

At  one  face,  round  and  ruddy  : 
'Twas  wrong  I  knew, — 'twas  very  wrong, 

And  cost  me  much  derision 
When  I  was  laboring  with  Long — 

O, — very  Long  Division  ! 

My  copy-book  with  faultless  lines 
Of  precept  for  each  letter 


THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL. 


Was  scribbled  over  with  "  Be  mine" — s, 
A  phrase  which  I  wrote  better 

Than  any  admonition  there  : 
It  somehow  seemed  to  nourish 

My  jaded  heart  to  read  it  where 
I'd  penned  it  with  a  flourish. 

No  matter  how  I  strived  to  learn, — 

No  matter  how  I  studied, 
Once  give  my  head  the  proper  turn 

And  then  my  eyes  were  flooded  ; 
For  there  across  the  room  sat  she 

Who  balked  my  brain's  endeavor  : — 
Thought  I,  one  day  I'll  whisper  "  Be" 

And  she'll  be  mine  forever. 

Old  school  among  the  summer  morns' 
And  afternoons'  long  dozes — 

Those  hours  of  mingled  mental  thorns — 
You  put  some  minute-roses  ; 


MADRIGALS  AND   CATCHES. 


One — one  you  put,  to  me  the  best, — 

The  sweet  face  of  my  story, 
Who  budded,  bloomed,  then,  like  the  rest, 

Died  in  her  fullest  glory. 

Ah  me,  the  children  you  have  known, — 

The  girl  with  bird-like  laughter, — 
The  boy  whose  penitential  moan 

Pierced  to  your  topmost  rafter, — 
Who  hears  to-day  the  voice  of  mirth 

Or  sorrow's  peal,  I  wonder  ! 
How  many  yet  are  on  the  earth? 

Alas, — how  many  under  ! 

Fit  emblem  of  the  change  of  time — 

Minerva's  palace-ruin, 
Take  this,  a  pupil's  idle  rhyme 

With  love  and  me  and  you  in  ; 
And  may  the  boy  whose  school-hours  seem 

To-day  so  dull  and  gloomy, 
Grown  up,  inherit  such  a  dream 

As  you  have  pictured  to  me. 


A  COLONIAL  MISSIVE. 

"D  Y  Dorothy  in  Cambridge  town 
This  letter  quaint  was  written 
To  some  young  chap  in  cap  and  gown 

Whose  happy  heart  was  smitten, 
Long  years  ago  when  stately  dames 

Were  puffed  and  powdered  Madams, 
And  these  were  frequent  college  names,- 

Ware,  Eliot,  and  Adams. 

The  college  yard  was  larger  then, — 

The  roll  of  students  only 
Could  muster  up  a  hundred  men, — 

Think,  now-a-days,  how  lonely  ! 


MADRIGALS  AND   CA  TCHES. 


Yet  almost  every  one  of  those 
Who  won  an  A.  B.  honor 

Has  left  a  name  whose  glory  throws 
The  laurels  thick  upon  her. — 

Dear  Harvard  !     It  is  hard  to  sing 

Of  this  un- Annexed  maiden 
Without  forgetting  everything 

Save  you.     My  mind  is  laden 
With  memories  of  by-gone  days 

When  I  was  wont  to  travel 
To  lectures  and  the  triumph  blaze 

Across  the  paths  of  gravel. 

Just  how  this  lad  and  lassie  looked, 
Or  what  was  his  or  her  name — 

Her  easy  running  quill  ne'er  crooked 
The  semblance  of  a  surname, — 

It  matters  not.     I  like  to  think 
I  see  her  in  the  creamy 


A    COLONIAL  MISSIVE.  105 

Old  paper  'twixt  the  lines  of  ink, — 
A  face  refined  and  dreamy. 

I  picture  her  in  homespun  dress, 

Each  small  foot  in  a  sandal, 
Her  features  full  of  tenderness 

Illumined  by  a  candle, 
Her  quill  a  feather  slim  and  white 

Above  the  square  of  paper, 
The  hand  that  guides  it  left  or  right 

Small,  and  the  fingers  taper. 

Those  were  the  days  of  waxen  seals 

And  "  f"-ish-looking  "  s"-es, 
Of  high-heeled  boots  and  spinning-wheels 

On  which  they  spun  their  dresses  ; 
And  in  this  missive  one  may  find 

Such  candor  in  a  sentence 
'Twould  bring,  if  one  were  half  inclined, 

A  sinner  to  repentance. 


MADRIGALS  AND  CA  TCHES. 


'Tis  faded  somewhat  since  it  felt 

Her  fingers  smooth  its  features, 
And  with  it  Father  Time  has  dealt 

As  with  us  human  creatures  . 
A  wrinkle  wreathes  its  inky  smile 

And  hides  the  comma-dimple, 
And  makes  it  seem  severe  in  style 

Which  is  severely  simple. 

Ah,  Cambridge  Dorothy,  I  know 

As  long  as  you  were  living — 
A  rose-face  framed  in  locks  of  snow, — 

His  love  had  no  misgiving  ; 
And  this  love-letter  which  you  penned, — 

Fast  deepening  to  yellow, 
Seems  thus  to  whisper  :   Like  me,  Friend, 

Let  love  make  thy  life  mellow  ! 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

HpHE  white  stars  blossom  in  the  skies, 
Like  daisies  strewn  in  azure  aisles  ; 
I  miss  but  two, — the  gentle  eyes 
That  greet  me  with  your  smiles. 

Love's  small  astronomy  is  mine 
Who  missing  these  miss  all  the  rest : 

I  hate  these  rival  lights  that  shine 
To  mock  my  lonely  quest. 

Good-night,  and  may  the  angels  keep 
Their  faithful  watches  o'er  each  lid, 

Behind  whose  fringes,  bathed  in  sleep, 
A  turquoise  sky  is  hid. 


SONNETS. 


BREEZES  OF  MORNING. 


when  the  doors  of  night  were  open  thrown 
I  saw  the  pink-robed  Dawn,  —  as  one  who  sees 
A  rose-bud  opening  by  slow  degrees,  — 
Step  from  the  Orient,  a  golden  zone 
About  her  waist  :  then,  sudden,  softly  blown 
On  fragile  blossom-bugles  by  the  breeze, 
I  heard  the  fragrant  roll-call  of  the  bees 
And  saw  them  troop  responsive  to  the  tone. 

And  as  I  watched  them  drain  their  cups  of  dew, 
And  saw  them  dart  and  flash  their  saffron  stripes 

In  all  the  opal  radiance  of  dawn, 
The  mythic  age  seemed  merged  into  the  new, 
And  Pan  once  more  upon  his  slender  pipes 

Called  to  the  dance  the  nimble  nymph  and  faun. 


A  PACIFIC  DAWN. 

T  T  7HEN  pale  Selene  in  her  crescent  boat 

Sails  down  unto  the  margin  of  the  West 
Through  shoals  of  stars  that  twinkle  in  unrest, 

In  fancy's  bark  I  follow  her,  and  float 

O'er  sapphire  seas  to  dreamy  realms  remote, 
And  at  my  side  there  goes  a  feathered  guest 
Who  sings  to  cheer  me,  and  the  air  is  blest 

With  melody  responsive  to  his  note. 

On,  on  I  journey  in  the  starry  wake, 
And  all  about  me  is  the  purple  dark 

Whence  blow  the  winds  by  which  my  bark  is  borne  ; 
And  suddenly  the  poppy  fetters  break, 
The  moon  is  gone,  and  in  the  field  a  lark 
Pays  tribute  to  the  faint  Pacific  morn. 


A  BUTTERFLY  IN  WALL  STREET. 

TT  TINGED  wanderer  from  clover  meadows  sweet, 
Where  all  day  long  beneath  a  smiling  sky 

You  drained  the  wild-flowers'  cups  of  honey  dry 
And  heard  the  drowsy  winds  their  loves  repeat, 
What  idle  zephyr  whispering  deceit 

Has  won  your  heart  and  tempted  you  to  fly 

Unto  this  noisy  town  and  vainly  pry 
Into  the  secrets  of  this  busy  street? 

To  me  your  unexpected  presence  brings 

A  thought  of  fragrant  pastures,  buds  and  flowers, 

And  sleepy  brooks,  and  cattle  in  the  fold  ; 
Or,  watching  as  you  soar  on  trembling  wings, 
I  think  for  those  who  toil  through  weary  hours 
You  are  a  type  of  their  uncertain  gold. 


THE   DANCING   GYPSY. 

T  TPON  a  mottled,  tawny  leopard-skin 

Spread  in  the  sunshine  on  the  dusty  ground, 
Stood  she, — a  gypsy  girl ;  and,  circled  round, 

Sat  dusky  youths  who  made  a  merry  din 

With  wild,  barbaric  drums,  while  she,  within, — 
A  graceful  figure,  by  no  garments  bound, — 
Danced  to  the  tambourine's  discordant  sound, 

And  mocked  the  instrument's  delirious  spin. 

Outside  the  ring  were  grouped  some  Arab  boys, 
Who  chattered  glibly  in  the  golden  sun, 

And  sang  weird  strains  of  song  by  fits  and  starts  ; 
They  seemed  unconscious  of  the  swelling  noise, 
Yet  he  alone  was  so, — her  chosen  one  : 

For  all  the  rest,  she  danced  upon  their  hearts  ! 


STRATEGY. 

TV  /TUSE,  grant  me  some  new  simile  to  sing 

Her  matchless  grace  and  loveliness,  and  tell 
What  words  shall  fit  the  lyric's  measure  well, 

What  metre  smooth  unto  her  lips  to  bring  : 

Then  shall  my  song  be  like  an  antique  ring 
In  whose  small  circlet  precious  jewels  dwell,— 
Each  line  a  gem  to  bribe  the  sentinel 

That  guards  her  heart  against  Love's  eager  king. 

Then  as  she  lends  her  eyes  to  read  my  song 
Perchance  her  heart  its  portals  wide  will  throw 

And  give  admittance  to  Love's  messenger, 
Who,  summoning  his  king's  impatient  throng, 
Shall  capture  it,  and  come  to  let  me  know 
How  easily  he  won  a  truce  from  her. 


RE-AWAKENING. 

"\  T  7ITHIN  a  spot  where  slept  the  silent  dead, 

I  wandered  once  when  spring  had  kissed  the 

earth, 

And  set  around  its  breast  an  emerald  girth 
Of  grass,  entangling  roses  white  and  red  ; 
Among  the  leafy  branches  overhead 

The  mating  robins  twittered  in  their  mirth, — 
All  nature  seemed  rejoicing  in  new  birth 
Beneath  the  canopy  the  blue  skies  spread  : 

And  as  I  sat  beside  one  mossy  stone 

Kissed  by  a  hundred  suns  of  summer  skies, 

A  sudden  joy  came  to  my  heart,  alone 

Among  those  graves,  to  think  the  dead  shall  rise 

In  God's  eternal  spring  when  sounds  are  blown 
On  angels'  instruments  in  Paradise  ! 


MISS  THOMAS'S  "A  NEW  YEAR'S  MASQUE." 

OHE  finds  companionship  in  field  and  wood, 
A  friendly  face  in  every  path  and  nook  ; 

The  skies  for  her  wear  no  uncertain  look  ; 
She  comprehends  the  mystery  and  mood 
Of  winds  and  waves  and  Heaven's  starry  brood  ; 

She  knows  the  message  of  the  bird  and  brook  ; 

For  her  all  Nature  is  an  open  book, 
And  solitary  means  not  solitude. 

With  this  small  volume  as  your  talisman, 

When  all  the  world  is  shrouded  in  the  snows, 

Sit  down  and  read  these  music-making  words  : 
And  winter's  blasts  shall  seem  the  winds  that  fan 
Your  face  in  June — sweet  with  the  breath  of  rose, 
And  tremulous  with  twitterings  of  birds  ! 


FRENCH  FOLLIES. 


COME,  PAN,  AND  PIPE. 


/^OME,  Pan,  and  pipe  upon  the  reed, 
And  make  the  mellow  music  bleed, 
As  once  it  did  in  days  of  yore, 
Along  the  brook's  leaf-tangled  shore, 

Through  sylvan  shade  and  fragrant  mead. 

On  Hybla  honey  come  and  feed,  — 
To  tempt  the  Fauns  in  dance  to  lead 
The  Dryads  on  the  mossy  floor,  — 
Come,  Pan,  and  pipe  ! 

To-day  the  ghosts  —  Gold,  Gain,  and  Greed, 
The  world  pursues  with  savage  speed  : 

Forgotten  is  your  magic  lore. 

Oh,  bring  it  back  to  us  once  more  ! 
For  simple,  rustic  song  we  plead  : 
Come,  Pan,  and  pipe  ! 


WHEN  TWILIGHT  COMES. 

"\  T  7HEN  twilight  comes  and  nature  stills 

The  hum  that  haunts  the  dales  and  hills, 
Dim  shadows  deepen  and  combine, 
And  Heaven  with  its  crystal  wine' 

The  cups  of  thirsty  roses  fills. 

Blithe  birds  with  music-burdened  bills 
Hush  for  a  space  their  tender  trills, 

And  seek  their  homes  in  tree  and  vine 
t  When  twilight  comes. 

Soft  melody  the  silence  thrills, 
Played  by  the  nymphs  along  the  rills  ; 
And  where  the  dew-kist  grasses  twine, 
The  toads  and  crickets  tattoo  fine 
Drums  to  the  fife  of  whip-poor-wills, 
When  twilight  comes. 


AN  OLD  RONDO. 

TTER  scuttle  Hatt  is  wondrous  wide, 

All  furrie,  too,  on  every  side, 
Soe  out  She  trippeth  daintylie, 
To  lett  ye  Youth  full  well  to  see, 

How  fay  re  y*  mayde  is  for  ye  Bryde. 

A  lyttle  puffed,  may  be,  bye  Pryde, 
She  yet  soe  lovely e  is  that  I'd 

A  Shillynge  give  to  tye,  perdie, 
Her  scuttle  Hatt. 

Ye  Coales  into  ye  Scuttle  slide, 
Soe  in  her  Hatt  wolde  I,  and  hide 

To  steale  some  Kisses — two  or  three  ; 

But  synce  She  never  asketh  me, 
Ye  scornful  Cynick  doth  deride 

Her  scuttle  Hatt ! 


BEHIND  HER  FAN. 

T3EHIND  her  fan  of  downy  fluff, 

Sewed  on  soft  saffron  satin  stuff, 
With  peacock  feathers,  purple-eyed, 
Caught  daintily  on  either  side, 

The  gay  coquette  displays  a  puff : 

Two  blue  eyes  peep  above  the  buff : 
Two  pinky  pouting  lips,  .  .   .  enough  ! 
That  cough  means  surely  come  and  hide 
Behind  her  fan. 

The  barque  of  Hope  is  trim  and  tough, 
So  out  I  venture  on  the  rough, 

Uncertain  sea  of  girlish  pride. 

A  breeze  !     I  tack  against  the  tide, — 
Capture  a  kiss  and  catch  a  cuff, — 
Behind  her  fan. 


H1 


HER  CHINA  CUP. 

[ER  china  cup  is  white  and  thin  ; 

A  thousand  times  her  heart  has  been 
Made  merry  at  its  scalloped  brink  ; 
And  in  the  bottom,  painted  pink, 
A  dragon  greets  her  with  a  grin. 

The  brim  her  kisses  loves  to  win  ; 
The  handle  is  a  manikin, 

Who  spies  the  foes  that  chip  or  chink 
Her  china  cup. 

Muse,  tell  me  if  it  be  a  sin  : 

I  watch  her  lift  it  past  her  chin 
Up  to  the  scarlet  lips  and  drink 
The  Oolong  draught.     Somehow  I  think 

I'd  like  to  be  the  dragon  in 
Her  china  cup. 


TO  CUPID. 

/^UPID,  tell  me  how  to  twine 
Words  like  roses  in  a  line, 
Fit  my  lady's  eyes  to  greet, 
For  her  red  lips  to  repeat 

That  her  heart  may  fathom  mine. 

How  to  make  each  sentence  shine — 
Love  with  modest  speech  combine — 
How  to  set  her  heart  a-beat— 
Cupid,  tell  me  ! 

Tell  me,  may  I  dare  to  sign 

All  the  love  and  fancies  fine — 

All  the  thoughts  and  secrets  sweet, 
That  I  lay  before  her  feet  ? 

Does  she  love  her  Valentine  ? 

Cupid,  tell  me  ! 


"  AWAKE,  AWAKE!" 

A  WAKE,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door  ! 
The  chilling  breezes  make  him  smart ; 
His  little  feet  are  tired  and  sore. 


Arise,  and  welcome  him  before 

Adown  his  cheeks  the  big  tears  start  : 
Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door  ! 

'Tis  Cupid  come  with  loving  art 
To  honor,  worship,  and  implore  ; 

And  lest,  unwelcomed,  he  depart 
With  all  his  wise,  mysterious  lore, 

Awake,  awake,  O  gracious  heart, 

There's  some  one  knocking  at  the  door  ! 


TO  MY  LOVE. 

^VUTSIDE,  the  blasts  of  winter  blow 
v         Across  the  city  clad  in  white  ; 
Each  flake  of  madly  driven  snow 

A  demon  seems,  with  teeth  that  bite  ; 

The  windows  rattle  as  with  fright, 
And  winds  the  chimney  whistle  through  : 

Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you. 

Within,  I  watch  the  embers  glow  ; 

The  slender  flames  in  sudden  flight 
Leap  from  the  crackling  logs,  and  throw 

Around  the  room  a  golden  light ;    . 


TO  MY  LOVE. 


Romantic  tales  their  tongues  recite, 
And  mellow  songs,  as  if  they  knew, 

Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you. 

From  Dreamland  all  my  fancies  flow  ; 

My  friendly  books,  with  faces  bright, 
Return  my  listless  gaze,  and  show 

No  sign  of  sorrow  at  the  slight. 

Hark  !  from  the  steeple's  dizzy  height 
The  bells  the  air  with  echoes  strew  : 

"  Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you." 

ENVOY. 

Love,  let  this  song  of  mine  invite 
Your  sweeter  voice  to  echo,  too  : 

"Alone  with  memory,  to-night, 
I'm  happy,  thinking,  love,  of  you." 


VALENTINE  TO  AN  ANONYMOUS  MISS. 


/~^OLDEN  locks  in  cunning  curl  ; 
Eyes  like  jewels  set  in  rings  ; 

Teeth,  a  row  of  polished  pearl  ; 
Lips,  two  rosy  blossomings  : 
Spryly  to  my  side  he  springs  : 

Pray,  who  is  this  fairy  fine  ? 
At  my  feet  he  coyly  flings  — 

"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ?" 

Ah,  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl, 

Thinking  on  such  dainty  things  ! 

Tis  young  Cupid  ;  see  him  furl 
At  his  back  two  tiny  wings  ! 


VALENTINE    TO  AN  ANONYMOUS  MISS.       131 

Just  between,  a  quiver  swings, 
Dipt  in  love's  delicious  wine, 

To  each  dart  the  flavor  clings— 
"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine?" 

Watching,  I  shall  see  him  hurl 
Recklessly  these  sugared  stings  ; 

Shaped  like  lips  of  some  sweet  girl 
Is  the  bow  his  shoulder  slings — 
Silken  hair  twined  for  the  strings. 

Snap  ! — What  ails  this  heart  of  mine, 
Clamoring  with  questionings  ? — 

"  Will  you  be  my  Valentine  ?'* 

ENVOY. 

Muse,  unto  the  maid  who  sings 
For  my  ears  this  teasing  line, 
This  reply  the  echo  brings  : 

be  my  Valentine  ?" 


A  COQUETTE. 

OHE  wears  a  most  bewitching  bang,- 
Gold  curls  made  captive  in  a  net  ; 
Her  dresses  with  precision  hang  ; 

Her  hat  observes  the  stylish  set  ; 

She  has  a  poodle  for  a  pet, 
And  drives  a  dashing  drag  and  pony  : 

I  know  it,  though  we've  never  met, — 
I've  seen  her  picture  by  Sarony. 

Her  phrases  all  are  fraught  with  slang, 
The  very  latest  she  can  get  ; 

She  sings  the  songs  that  Patience  sang, 
Can  whistle  airs  from  "Olivette," 


A    COQUETTE, 


And,  in  the  waltz,  perhaps,  might  let 
You  squeeze  her  hand,  with  gems  all  stony  : 

I  know  it,  though  we've  never  met, — 
I've  seen  her  picture  by  Sarony. 

Her  heart  has  never  felt  love's  pang, 

Nor  known  a  momentary  fret  ; 
Want  never  wounds  her  with  his  fang  ; 

She  likes  to  run  Papa  in  debt  ; 

She'll  smoke  a  slender  cigarette 
Sub  rosa  with  a  favored  crony  : 

I  know  it,  though  we've  never  met, — 
I've  seen  her  picture  by  Sarony. 

ENVOY. 

Princes,  beware  this  gay  coquette  ! 

She  has  no  thoughts  of  matrimony  : 
I  know  it,  though  we've  never  met, — 

I've  seen  her  picture  by  Sarony. 


A  SWELL. 

T  TIS  forehead  he  fringes  and  decks 
With  carefully  cut  Montagues  ; 
He  angles  his  arms  semi-X, 

And  dresses  in  delicate  hues  ; 

His  haunts  are  the  rich  avenues  ; 
Staccato  is  somewhat  his  gait ; 

It  takes  but  a  wink  to  amuse 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate. 

His  costumes  are  covered  with  checks  ; 

He  travels  in  taper-toed  shoes 
Through  Vanity  Fair,  there  to  vex 

The  silly  young  heart  that  he  wooes  ; 


A    SWELL.  i35 


He's  clever  with  cards  and  with  cues, 
And  banters  with  Fortune  and  Fate  : 

Alas,  that  the  lad  cannot  lose 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate  ! 

He's  fond  of  the  frivolous  sex  ; 

His  light  conversation  he  strews 
With  "toffy," — aught  else  would  perplex 

The  topic  his  fancy  pursues  ; 

The  cud  of  contentment  he  chews, 
While  women  and  wealth  on  him  wait ; 

And  nature  with  nothing  endues 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate. 


Fair  princesses,  all  who  peruse 
This  ballad,  beware  ere  too  late, 

Lest  Opulence  hear  you  abuse 
His  sadly  impoverished  pate  ! 


OF  RHYME. 

"\  T  7HEN  blossoms  born  of  balmy  spring 

Breathe  fragrance  in  the  pleasant  shade 
Of  branches  where  the  blue-birds  sing, 

Their  hearts  with  music  overweighed  ; 

When  brooks  go  babbling  through  the  glade, 
And  over  rocks  the  grasses  climb 

To  greet  the  sunshine,  half-afraid, — 
How  easy  'tis  to  write  a  rhyme  ! 

When  invitations  are  a-wing 

For  gay  Terpsichore's  parade  ; 
When  dreamy  waltzes  stir  the  string 

And  jewels  flash  on  rich  brocade, 


OF  RHYME. 


Where  Paris  dresses  are  displayed, 
And  slippered  feet  keep  careful  time  ; — 

In  winter,  when  the  roses  fade, 
How  easy  'tis  to  write  a  rhyme  ! 

When  by  your  side,  with  graceful  swing, 
Some  fair-faced,  gentle  girl  has  strayed, 

Willing  and  glad  to  have  you  bring 
Your  claims  for  love  and  get  them  paid 
In  kisses,  smiles,  and  words  that  aid 

The  bells  of  bliss  to  better  chime  ; — 
When  Cupid's  rules  are  first  obeyed, 

How  easy  'tis  to  write  a  rhyme  ! 

ENVOY. 

Reader,  forgive  me,  man  or  maid, 

Against  Calliope  this  crime  ; 
And  let  this  brief  ballade  persuade 

How  easy  'tis  to  write  a  rhyme  ! 


TO  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

T^ROM  the  sunny  climes  of  France, 

Flying  to  the  west, 
Came  a  flock  of  birds  by  chance, 

There  to  sing  and  rest : 
Of  some  secrets  deep  in  quest, — 

Justice  for  their  wrongs, — 
Seeking  one  to  shield  their  breast, 
One  to  write  their  songs. 

Melodies  of  old  romance, 

Joy  and  gentle  jest, 
Notes  that  made  the  dull  heart  dance 

With  a  merry  zest ; — 


TO  AUSTIN  DOBSON.  139 

Maids  in  matchless  beauty  drest, 

Youths  in  happy  throngs  ; — 
These  they  sang  to  tempt  and  test 

One  to  write  their  songs. 

In  old  London's  wide  expanse 

Built  each  feathered  guest, — 
Man's  small  pleasure  to  enhance, 

Singing  him  to  rest,— 
Came,  and  tenderly  confessed, 

Perched  on  leafy  prongs, 
Life  were  sweet  if  they  possessed 

One  to  write  their  songs. 


Austin,  it  was  you  they  blest : 
Fame  to  you  belongs  ! 

Time  has  proven  you're  the  best 
One  to  write  their  songs 


UNIFORM  IN  STYLE  AND  PRICE,  IN  WHITE,  STOKES, 
&  ALLEN'S  NEW  SERIES  OF  VOLUMES  OF 

AMERICAN  VERSE. 

POINT  LACE  AND  DIAMONDS.  By  George  A.  Baker, 
author  of  *'  The  Bad  Habits  of  Good  Society  "  ik  Mrs.  Hephces- 
tus"  etc. 

CAP  AND  BELLS.     By  Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 

MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES.  By  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman. 

THISTLE-DRIFT.     By  John  Vance  Cheney. 


(Other  volumes  in  preparation.') 

Sparkling  verses,  many  of  which  have  appeared  in  THE 
CENTURY  and  other  well-known  publications. 

Each,  one  volume,  Elzevir  i6mo,  from  new  plates,  on  very  fine 
laid  paper. 

Each,  olive-green,  vellum  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  gilt  top,  neat 
ornamentation  in  gold,  $1.00. 

Parchment  paper  covers,  with  design  of  Pan  and  Dancing 
Cupids  (by  S.  W.  van  Schaick),  stamped  in  gold  at  top,  and  with 
lettering  and  vignette  printed  in  color  below,  each  vol.,  $1.00. 

Half  calf,  gilt  top,  each  vol $2  oo 

Limp  calf,  red  under  gold  edges.     In  box,  each 3  oo 

Tree  calf,  gilt  edges.     In  box,  each ...    3  5° 

Any  of  the  above  books  can  be  had  of  your  bookseller,  or  will 
be  sent  to  any  address,  at  publishers'  expense,  on  receipt  of  adver- 
tised price. 

New  catalogue  sent  free  to  any  address.  Contains  full  descrip- 
tions of  many  new  publications. 

WHITE,  STOKES,  &  ALLEN,  Publishers, 
182  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK  CITY. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


NOV  11  1932 


SEP  20 


395738  " 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


